Gift from the Sea Ch. 05-06

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Chapter Five: On the Kusadasi Beach

“Ah, our gift from the sea. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

Greta, the woman of a certain age, looked over the top of the book she was reading as she reclined, nude, on the oversized towel. She looked out toward the surf on the deserted pocket beach to the south of Kusadasi, the port for the ancient city of Ephesus, once on the sea itself but now a pile of ruins locked between two hills several miles from the silted-in Turkey coast. She looked at the beautiful naked body of the young reddish-gold-haired young man, Sebastian, her eyes going to the more deeply red hair of his pubes and his very nicely hung cock, and she gave a little shudder. Carlos’s treatment of her as if she wasn’t moved by the sexiness of the young man irritated her–as did Sebastian’s standoffishness, not flirting with her as Carlos did when he wanted something.

She ached for the young Sebastian to want something from her, so that, in receiving it, he’d have to give her something in return–as Carlos dutifully did on occasion.

Her eyes went beyond the young man to the other Greta–to her sailing yacht anchored just off shore. She was tiring of this cruising. She was tiring of Carlos too. Possibly Sebastian could give her a bit of sport and then she could jettison them both and return to Paris for the runway season.

As Sebastian walked in from the surf and up the beach to his own towel and lay down on his back to use the sun to both dry him and help turn his flawless skin–soft and pliable, but stretched over the hard marble of his muscles, giving excellent definition without being overly bulky–to a deeper shade of tan, Carlos stood up from the towel next to Greta from whence he’d declared that Sebastian was a gift from the sea.

Greta saw the underlining meaning of the man’s statement now. She looked up at his olive-skinned body, as supple and hard muscled as Sebastian’s fair skin, but stretched on a more mature frame and swirling with interesting patterns of curly hair. Carlos was in full erection, something that took her breath away every time she saw it. But his eyes were on Sebastian, not on her. She snorted, trying to pretend she didn’t mind that. But she wasn’t as indifferent to Carlos’s form of bisexuality that leaned toward young men as she let him think she was. She was aware, though, that her own body was on the cusp of giving over to old age in a way that the plastic surgeons would no longer be able to protect her from, and she wasn’t as sure of herself with men as she once was. At some point money wasn’t going to pay for everything she coveted.

She watched as Carlos walked over to where Sebastian was stretched out on his towel. He squatted down beside Sebastian and leaned over and kissed the young man on the lips. Sebastian opened his mouth to Carlos’s tongue. The young man had come up on his elbows and arched his back to meet Carlos’s lips with his. He was totally submissive to the advances of the older man. Greta found this an irritant, as well–that the young man so easily submitted to Carlos–or had done so until now, at least. One of the older man’s hands glided down Sebastian’s belly and between his thighs, under his dick and balls. Without opening his eyes, Sebastian maintained the arch in his back and bent and spread his legs, setting his feet flat on the towel and rolling his pelvis up. Greta could hear his deep moan as Carlos entered his passage with two fingers.

Greta tore her gaze away from the two men in irritation at the power that Carlos had over the young man and his wanton display of control in front of her and returned to reading her novel. Another moan caused her to look over to see that Carlos had moved to below and between Sebastian’s thighs. He was grasping the young man’s ankles and had Sebastian’s legs folded up onto his chest and his torso rolled up to where his weight was being borne on his shoulder blades. Carlos was on his knees between Sebastian’s thighs and was moving his mouth from Sebastian’s hardening cock to his balls and then to his entrance, which Carlos dug his tongue in. Sebastian’s eyes were open now–wide open, and his face was turned toward Greta. He was giving her the most angelic look of pleasure and want as Carlos ate his ass out. Sebastian’s arms were flung straight out from his sides and his fingers were sifting through the sand on either side of the towel.

Greta pursed her lips and returned her attention to her novel, but she could feel the stirrings of desire inside her and her nipples hardened. It occurred to her for the first time that she wanted what Sebastian was getting from Carlos. Carlos hadn’t lain with her since Sebastian had joined them in Brindisi. The man had been obsessed with the small ginger tweak male whore. Greta’s irritation was growing by the hour. She both wanted Carlos back in her bed and on top of her and wanted to punish him a bit–to remind him who paid kıbrıs escort for all of this.

When she looked back, Carlos had come up and over Sebastian, his hands now grasping the young man’s wrists on either side of the towel. He was up on his feet, leaning over Sebastian’s elevated pelvis, and he was fucking the young man in long strokes. Sebastian was panting lightly and groaning from the depth that Carlos was reaching. After several minutes of this, Carlos pulled out of Sebastian’s passage and moved further up onto his torso. He released his load on Sebastian’s face and neck. With a stab of satisfaction Greta could now see opposition and distaste forming on Sebastian’s face. She wondered if Carlos couldn’t see it or just didn’t care. Sebastian was struggling now, although Carlos had him under control, still grasping his wrists, and straddling the young’s man’s chest.

He forced his half-hard cock between Sebastian’s lips, making the young man clean it. But he didn’t stop there. He sank his cock further into Sebastian’s throat. He was achieving a second hardening, and he was determined to deep-throat face fuck Sebastian.

The young man was struggling in earnest with him. He was gagging and bucking against Carlos’s attack. He managed to roll to the side, his face turned away from Greta, and plead, “No, Carlos, please don’t. You know you are too big for me to take that way.”

“You will be pleased when you find you have done so.”

“I think I know my limits, Carlos. You called me a whore. Don’t you think a professional whore knows his limits?”

Greta’s spirits raised. A spat between the two men. It wasn’t all mutually desired sex. Still, she felt all tingly herself at watching their coupling. She wanted Carlos inside her. It had been too long since he’d done the duty she paid him to do. And yet she didn’t want him to know how badly she wanted it. That would give him power and control that she didn’t want him to have. There must be some way for her to change the dynamic here to her advantage.

“Very well, but it’s not your place to challenge me, whore,” Carlos spat out, as he rose off Sebastian and stood over him, hands on hips, still magnificent in a half erection, a pout on his face. He wasn’t used to be denied. “Jurgen told me you did it all,” he said. “If you wish to stick around, you will do it all.”

Sebastian sat up, wiping cum off his face with the back of his hand, and coughing from having taking a gigantic cock in his throat. He gave Carlos a dismissive look. “Yes, I’m a whore, Carlos, but if you wanted to know if there was anything I wouldn’t do, you should have asked me, not Jurgen. There almost always are limits a whore won’t go beyond–especially with no or inadequate payment. I didn’t sign a contract with you in Brindisi, nor was I sold to you. And if anyone here is paying for me, it’s Greta, not you. Your cock is too big for me to deep-throat. Sorry, but there it is. I’m along for the ride, but you don’t own me. I take you because I want to–because you are a sexy hunk, not because you–or the woman who is keeping you–have money to pay a whore. You should appreciate the difference.”

Carlos’s face turned red and he was about to explode, but then he deflated, and said, through a set jaw, “I’m going for a swim. Think about it.” He turned and flounced down the beach, executed a perfectly arced dive into a large wave rolling up onto the beach, and started a strong Australian crawl swim out to the Greta.

He hadn’t reached the sailing yacht before Greta, the woman, impressed that Sebastian would declare the truth of who was paying here and thinking to press her advantage, had dropped her book, quietly shuffled through the sand over to where Sebastian had stretched out on his back again, his legs slightly spread and bent, his feet flat on the towel, and had closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

At first he thought Carlos had come right back to him, apologetic and ready to give Sebastian pleasure as hands glided over his body, fingers swam through his pubic hair and took possession of his cock, and a soft mouth opened over his shaft. But then he opened his eyes to see that it was Greta, not Carlos.

What was he to do now? He knew that all of this was on Greta’s euro, not Carlos’s. He’d been afraid that it would come to this. If he denied her, she’d see that he was tossed out. If he didn’t, he’d win the ire of Carlos. He had no choice. When she lifted her leg over his hips, positioned his cock at her cunt, and slid down his now-hard pole, he did what he had to do. He grasped her right hip with his left hand to help her hold steady, ran the fingers of his right hand into her folds in a successful hunt for her clit, and used the leverage of his feet to start the rhythm of the fuck.

When he pulled himself up on the deck of the Greta, Carlos looked back at the beach, registered outrage, and dove into kıbrıs escort bayan the water again for the swim back. He wasn’t back before Greta received the satisfaction of a fuck from Sebastian. She left him and went over to gather up her towel and beach accessories and went down to the surf line to stand by the dinghy that had brought them up on the beach. Not wanting to receive the full, initial fury of Carlos and, perhaps, the stinging retorts from Greta, who Sebastian had seen had been getting more and more irritated with Carlos’s inattention to her, Sebastian struggled up from the sand and started walking up the beach. He would endure whatever backlash there was in this for him when he returned.

But when he returned, Carlos was gone and Greta was gone. The dinghy was gone. Even the sailing yacht, Greta, was gone. With a sigh, he sank back down on the towel and threw an arm over his face, and drifted off to sleep. It had all made him so tired. In fact, the demands of Carlos all the way from Brindisi to the Turkish coast had tired Sebastian out. He had been thinking of abandoning ship here in Turkey anyway.

But now the ship had abandoned him.

* * * *

“Ben,” Ari said, pointing to himself as he knelt in front of Sebastian on the beach, looking so serious and so needy–and oh so sexy in a thuggish, dark, thickish, hirsute sort of way–while Sebastian was sitting virtually in the lap of the one who had conveyed to him that his name was Errol and who had his arms wrapped around Sebastian’s chest. When the young American nodded at that, knowing it meant “I” in Turkish, Errol added “istemek” and then “sikisalek” and, after a pause, “almak” and then pointing at Sebastian, “sen,” and Sebastian again nodded and answered, “Evet,” the Turkish hunk broke out in a wide grin and a hand extended to cup the young man’s cock and balls. Moments later, with Ari still embracing Sebastian’s chest from behind and his knees pushed under the American’s buttocks, Sebastian’s ankles were hooked on Errol’s shoulders, and the solidly built Turk was feeding his thick cock inside Sebastian’s passage and beginning to pound him vigorously. The two Turks were delighted that the handsome, well-formed ginger tweak, a rarity in Turkey, took cocking so willingly and well.

One of the Greta’s crew members had been a young, randy, and well-endowed Turk. He had taught Sebastian some basic Turkish words, like “ben” for “I,” “sen” for “you,” and “istemek” for “want”–and some choicer words like “sikisalek” and “almak,” both of which were vulgar words for “fuck.” He’d taught the young American “evet” for “yes,” but since Sebastian never said “no” to him, he didn’t learn the Turkish for that. It was a good thing that the two randy Turkish men who came across Sebastian sunning himself, naked, on the beach Greta and Carlos had deserted him on were such hunks that Sebastian didn’t want to say no to them. He posed well enough for them as they approached that they knew he was interested. He knew they were interested, because they’d both had their thick shafts out and were stroking them before they reached him.

These two guys, Errol and Ari, were much like the Turkish sailor Sebastian had let fuck him on the Greta–drop dead gorgeous in a primitive, swarthy, and hirsute way, forceful in the taking, very masculine, muscular, and happy-go-lucky. Fucking was a celebration for them, and while taking their partner hard they also showed him a good time. Errol and Ari not only were lifesavers; they also showed Sebastian a good time.

When Errol was done, he pointed to Ari and asked “Almak, evet?”

“Evet,” Sebastian amicably answered, and the two Turks gleefully exchanged places and Ari, the more hung of the two, got his turn fucking Sebastian, while Errol supported Sebastian’s reclined body from behind.

What followed as they lay on the sand, with Sebastian sandwiched between the two Turks who had come across him, naked, on the beach and struck it lucky with him, was some information gathering and negotiations. Errol knew a smattering of English, and Sebastian managed to get across that he’d been deserted here by a ship and that the towel, Speedo, and a pair of sandals were all he had. The Turks conveyed that they had a car and they had a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that might fit him, and that he fucked so well, looked so sexy, and was such a rare breed of reddish-blond foreigner to boot that they knew of a male brothel in nearby Kusadasi that almost certainly would take him in and give him food and lodging for services rendered.

They were getting along so well and Sebastian was handling four hands being intimate with his body at once and easily got hard again and was purring with the attention that Ari was brave enough to ask the million-dollar question and Errol knew enough English to make sure Sebastian understood the request and knew exactly what it escort kıbrıs entailed.

Ari made an exaggerated point of referencing both Errol and him in one gesture, repeated the already successfully conveyed words “istemek” for “want” and “almak” for fuck, and then pointed to Sebastian. But he went on to say “ikisi de” and “Iki kat,” with a concluding question of “evet?” Errol wagged his head and supplied the translations “both” and “double”. “Evet?”

The two were ecstatic when Sebastian nodded, smiled, and said, “Evet.”

The two fucked him together, both cocks stroking inside him at once, with the Turks standing, facing each other, Errol behind Sebastian, encasing his chest in a bear hug and pumping him from behind, and Sebastian’s legs rising up Ari’s chest and the hunky Turk pumping him from the front.

After giving the two jolly Turks that great time, they were ready to do anything for him. They praised his abilities to high heaven with Mehmet at Mehmet’s Paradise Massage Parlor in Kusadasi–although Mehmet, a whale of a man, who, nevertheless, had a big cock and knew what to do with it, of course, had to verify Sebastian’s talent and worth for himself. The deal Sebastian got was not only room and board–accommodation in one of Mehmet’s best bedrooms–but also a good cut of his individual earnings on his back.

The other service Ari and Errol performed for Sebastian was that they kept track of the bigger sailing yachts coming in and out of the Kusadasi harbor as well as where they were headed and the possible interests and physiques of male owners and skippers of these vessels and kept Sebastian apprised on possibilities of getting back out to sea.

Chapter Six: Malta Redux

Sebastian palmed the Turk’s hairy pecs and dug his nails in, and cried out, “Fuckin’ shit, Jemal! Almak, almak!” as the man crouched between his thighs, pinning him to the bunk in one of the Dixon 63 sailing yacht’s cabins, and sent his thrusting cock into overdrive. There was a cruel-amused-lustful expression in the chunky Turk’s eyes that told Sebastian he was making what they’d agreed was their last fuck one to remember. Giving up the struggle, Sebastian shot his load, relaxed, collapsed back onto the bunk and let the Turk have his way with him in the buildup to Jemal panting heavily and ever more noisily, exclaiming something in Turkish, pulling his dick out of Sebastian’s ass, tearing the condom off, and coming on Sebastian’s belly.

Jemal came down on top of Sebastian, his garlic-breathed mouth seeking Sebastian’s. The ginger twink turned his head to the side, though, taking in the familiar scene of the red-tile-roofed buildings climbing the hillside on the northern side of the Valletta fortress through the porthole next to the bunk. Jemal’s mouth landed in the hollow of Sebastian’s neck, and, not taking umbrage, Jemal licked a throbbing vein there and then sucked on it. His hands went to between their bodies as he rolled another condom on his still-half-hard cock, adjusted the placement of the bulb, and pressed inside Sebastian again. The young American well knew from the long sail back from Turkey that the Turk had two quick-succession fucks in him, and he moved his arms to encircle the heavier man’s torso, dug his fingers into the Turk’s shoulder blades, hooked his heels on the man’s meaty calves, and began to rock back and forth as the shaft engorged and dug continuously deeper inside him.

He listened to the two younger Turkish crew members moving about overhead, bringing the Dixon 63 to resting anchor in the cove below Clifford Gainsworth’s hillside villa. He knew that they would be down, one by one, soon to get their piece of him–final payment for transport back across the Mediterranean.

It had been three months since Sebastian had impetuously sailed away from the cove on the northern side of Valletta, but it seemed like he’d never been gone.

They parted on the beach, with Jemal and his two crewman going off to the Crusader Bar, a haunt of men from the sea, to list the Dixon 63 on the “yachts for sale” board. He bought them in Turkey, most often in Kusadasi, refurbished them, and sailed them to the western Mediterranean to sell, as the market was stronger there. The Dixon 63 was a real honey after his restoration and Sebastian regretted having to leave it. But it had been three months since he’d left Malta, he’d recharged his batteries, and he had a life with Clifford Gainsworth to pick up again–or so he thought–until he could fall into new chances to sail the seas in classic sailing yachts.

The villa was deserted when he got there. No Clifford Gainsworth and no Mateo. Leaves were scattered about on the stone terrace. Gainsworth’s bed was stripped of its linens, and even the wheelchair was gone. Sebastian was moving about the villa, his footsteps reverberating on the deserted walls, with only his own room still littered with possessions–his own possessions, placed just as he had left them impulsively three months earlier.

As he came back down the stairs, he saw the figure of the lawyer, Guzi Penza step out of the shadows and look up at him. “You’re too late. He’s gone. Died two weeks after you disappeared,” Penza said.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32